


Letters

by BleuWaters



Series: Reader Deaths [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, HAAAAA, It starts out happy, Poor Bucky, This Is Sad, and gets sad, but the happy is happy!, ha, haha - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:18:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleuWaters/pseuds/BleuWaters
Summary: Bucky Barnes x reader. Bucky is blessed to have a girlfriend that loves him. He promised to write her every week after enlisting, and he did...He did it because he loves her.





	Letters

“Chocolate for you, strawberry for me,” grins Bucky, and you take your milkshake happily.

“Thank you,” you pipe, watching as he slides into the booth across from you and swipes his paper hat off, “Are you sure you don't mind having our date here?”

“‘Course not,” he says, “Long as I'm not workin’. I just got off, so I'm fine.”

“All right,” you say, smiling as you taste your shake. Bucky made it, so it's just the way you like it, and you tell him so.

“So, I was thinking,” he starts, and you crack a grin, biting back your immediate response of ‘uh-oh', “We should go to the movies sometime.”

“We should,” you nod, licking your spoon and waiting for him to continue.

“Maybe, y’know, later this week.”

“How much later? It is Monday; we can decide any day.” You look at him with faux seriousness, but all that's running in your mind is how cute he is when he gets flustered.

“Any day, I guess. Oh, except for Thursday. Or tomorrow.”

“So, Wednesday or Friday?”

“Yeah, Wednesday or Friday.”

“I'm free Friday,” you say, stirring your milkshake and glancing up at him from beneath your eyelashes. He looks into his own glass and nods.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, “I heard that _Citizen Kane_ is a good one.”

“Oh? What’s it about?”

Bucky snickers, scratching behind his ear.

“I have no idea,” he confesses, looking up at you with a sheepish smile on his face, “But it's supposed to be good.”

“Then we'll go see it,” you answer, smiling just as widely.

After finishing your milkshakes, Bucky walks you home, the two of you hand-in-hand. He offers you little more than a cheeky grin and a goodnight, but that's enough. You're very fond of him, and you know that he likes you.

You look forward to the date on Friday night.

 

~o0o~

 

Turns out, you shouldn't have been quite so anxious for it. Bucky confesses that he has enlisted and is being shipped out, and this is the first time you've heard of the matter.

You react with breathless shock. There's little more going through your mind than the thought of losing him.

Men that go to war rarely come home. It's the fact of war.

You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, silent tears dripping down your cheeks.

“Why didn't you tell me?” you whisper, sniffing against his collar.

“Didn't wanna worry you,” he whispers back, “No reason to. It's...I'm sorry.”

“You will write me every week,” you say, “Please. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“I will look at the stars and think of you. I'll pray for you. Oh, Bucky, don't go!”

His arms tighten around you.

“It's too late,” he breathes, and you cough out a sob, clinging to him like it's the last time you'll see him.

Truth be told, it's the second-to-last time you saw him. You kissed him goodbye when he boarded the ship to France and waved your handkerchief until your arm ached.

And, just six months later, you died.

 

~o0o~

 

_‘November 18th, seven months and two weeks after I shipped out._

_Dear (f/n),_

_It's rough out here in the wild. Nothing would be better than seeing you, holding you, kissing you. I dream about coming home._

_Christmas is soon. Have you gotten a tree yet? Put a stocking up for me, will you? I'll open it when I get back. Just...maybe don't put an orange in it. Eat it yourself, haha!_

_Have you gone to see a Captain America performance? I've heard that he's done a lot of shows around New York. I haven't had the opportunity yet; supposedly he's just an icon. Hasn't seen any frontline action._

_I'm fine. Haven't even fired my weapon. I clean it for show, but so do the other fellas. You worried for nothing._

_Forever yours,_

_James’_

 

~o0o~

 

_November 25th, seven months and three weeks after I shipped out._

_Dear (f/n),_

_Your return letter is taking a LONG time to reach me. I miss you. Your letters smell like your perfume. A couple of the fellas tease me for being such a sap, but it's just because they don't have a sweetheart back home. The guys that do have a girl brag about them, and I'm afraid I join in._

_I've never thought of myself as a homesick kind of guy, but I'm homesick for you._

_I want to hold your hand. I want to dance with you. I want to take you for a hamburger and milkshake, and I want you to steal my French fries (which are Belgian, apparently)._

_I want to waste an evening away kissing you and forgetting about the world._

_I want to see the little girls in the neighborhood watch us play on their hopscotch drawings and be jealous when I sweep you off your feet at the end._

_I want, I want, I want, but I know you want it, too._

_I want to be traded about having your lipstick stain on my cheek. I want to frantically smooth down my hair because you had fun ruffling it._

_I want to hear you squeal triumphantly after winning the ring toss game at the fair. I want to hear you cheer for me while I race to win a pie-eating contest, and, baby, I'll win it for you._

_I want to chase you down the beach in our bathing suits. I want to catch you and kiss your cheek._

_Wait for me, baby. I'll be home before you know it, and we'll be together again._

_Your beloved,_

_James’_

 

~o0o~

 

‘ _December 2nd, eight months since I shipped out._

_Dear (f/n),_

_I won't be able to make it home for Christmas. Wish I could be._

_We were transferred last minute; headed to Italy now. Good thing, too. I was getting sick of French food (haha)._

_Italy will be nice. I heard they have a mandatory nap hour. Maybe I can find an actual bed. Don't get me wrong; sleeping under the stars is great, but, in a bed, I can dream better. I can see your face clearer._

_There's a rumor going around that we might come home sometime in May. Holding onto that. Praying it's true._

_Je t’aime from France,_

_James_ ’

 

~o0o~

 

Bucky’s munching on a stale cracker when someone shouts ‘mail call!’

“Joe Brons! Kenneth Jay Jr! Isaac Dalton! Marv Milton! Bucky Barnes!”

Bucky shoves past his buddies to take the letter. It's been a couple months since he's heard from you; it's a relief to finally get a letter.

But then he sees who it's from.

It's from your mother.

He shrugs and rips open the envelope, grinning as a couple fellas jostle and tease him about getting a love letter from his girl’s ma.

_’October 8th, 1942_

_Dearest James,_

_It is with a broken heart that I write this short letter. Our forever beloved (f/n) died October fourth of a fever. I'm so sorry, James. I know how much you loved each other. Her funeral will be over before you receive this letter, but it will be beautiful._

_I'm sorry you had to hear the news like this. I would've done anything to tell you in person._

_Regards and regrets,_

_(M/n)_

Bucky frowns deeply, confused, and reads the letter again.

And again.

And again as tears fill his eyes.

Anyone watching would see the man's world crash down around his ears.

He staggers backward into the rowdy group of soldiers, his hand over his mouth, the mucky aftertaste of baked flour rising in his throat. A couple men grab his arms as he collapses, bile and his breakfast splattering onto some boots and the floor.

“Hey, what's the big idea!?” yelps someone.

“Give the man some air, will ya?” shouts another.

“What's the matter!?”

“How would I know? The man just blacked out!”

“Bad news from home, I figure.”

 

~o0o~

 

He dreams of you. He can see you on the other side of a dirty window, so near to himself, but so impossibly far away. He can't reach you. He can't call to you. He can't write you.

You're lost to him.

And the nightmare remains when he wakes.

Bucky startles himself awake, an arm lashing out as though he was trying to catch himself mid-fall. His hand lands against Isaac’s side, and the soldier stirs in his sleep, humming a question as he drifts to consciousness.

“What's s’matter?” he mumbles, sucking in a deep breath as he fully wakes up.

“Nothin’,” answers Bucky, “Go back to sleep.”

“Is it ‘bout (f/n)?”

Bucky frowns, tears burning his eyes.

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head and standing up, “Nature calls. Go back to sleep.”

Bucky steps out of the shallow ditch his platoon bedded down in and walks quietly to a patch of trees not far off.

He sits down against an old, dead tree, and buries his head in his hands. Tears finally fall, hot against his cold digits.

He is not a believer in wishes. He knows that God is looking out for him and that nothing comes by happenstance or by wishing.

But he wished the pain away. He prayed that it would leave him, and he didn't care how, as long as he could live his daily life without seeing your smiling face in every flower, every soda bottle, every mud puddle.

He didn't take into account the harm that he would cause after the blissful brainwash.

Now, as he stares at his old army buddy, both of them men out of place in 2016, he wonders what he ever did to get here.

The answer is simpler than it seems.

He volunteered.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and comments! Check out my other stories if you liked this one. <3


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